


The Care of Tony Stark

by kyasuu



Series: tumblr things [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Infected Injury, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyasuu/pseuds/kyasuu
Summary: The one where Tony Stark is an idiot and Clint Barton is worried.





	The Care of Tony Stark

**Author's Note:**

> [the post on tumblr](https://kyasuu.tumblr.com/post/169879172287/tony-take-better-care-of-urself-gdi)

He’s a little embarrassed and angry at himself for it, but it takes Clint a full 48 hours to realize something’s wrong.

In his defense, it’s very normal Tony behavior to be holing up in his workshop for hours straight and surfacing with new tech and a need for rest that isn’t on a bench, especially after a long mission. In all seriousness, Clint probably would’ve been more concerned if Tony hadn’t.

But Tony had been getting better with it, especially with all of Bruce and Steve’s mother henning (those two are a force to be reckoned with). He’d stopped going on three day engineering binges, cutting it down to maybe six hours at most. He’d started joining them for dinner whenever they all gathered instead of hiding down in his workshop.

So Clint’s mentally berating himself for not checking on Tony, too worried about Coulson (who had landed himself in the hospital, but he’s doing okay, thank god). Steve and Natasha had been off doing SHIELD business and Clint hadn’t been invited for once while Bruce was off in India, visiting some old friends or something. Thor’s on Asgard for some interdimensional business. So it obviously had fallen on Clint to make sure their resident billionaire is doing okay, since obviously he can’t take care of himself, and he’d failed at that.

“Tony?” Clint calls, deciding to use the door instead of the ceiling vent this time, but if Tony doesn’t let him in, he’ll go through the normal way. Well, his normal way. He’s pretty sure most people don’t use the vents.

There’s a pause, and the door opens. No obnoxiously loud music is blasting, which is a cause for concern on its own.  “Come in,” JARVIS says, sounding mildly displeased. “Agent Barton, please talk some sense into Sir.”

Clint’s heart sinks at JARVIS’s words, and just about plummets in his stomach when he actually sees Tony. “Tony–”

“Hey, Hawkass!” Tony says, steamrolling straight through whatever Clint was going to say next. His eyes are still focused on the piece of armor in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration, but sweat beads his forehead and his cheeks are flushed red–too red for comfort. His hands are trembling slightly. “Sorry, can you go? I can’t figure this out…”

“Dude, you look like shit,” Clint says bluntly, taking in his bedraggled appearance and feeling a small stab of guilt. “You’ve been in here for… how long now?”

“48 hours, Agent Barton,” JARVIS answers before Tony can mute him, sounding disapproving. “Sir has not eaten anything or slept at all during this time period, and he is currently–”

“That’s enough, JARVIS!” Tony shouts, sounding genuinely angry, and that’s just setting off more alarm bells. He never gets genuinely mad at JARVIS; the AI is practically his baby. “I’m trying to figure out this stupid fucking thing, but it won’t work.” His voice wavers. “It’s not working! I’m supposed to be a fucking genius.”

“Hey, man, even geniuses need rest,” Clint points out, wondering how he’s supposed to go about doing this. Clint isn’t great with comforting people; that’s always been Natasha’s forte. Tony’s never this irritable, though he’s pretty sure the frustration is directed at himself. “Come back to it once you’ve gone to bed, maybe?”

Tony turns to him so rapidly, Clint’s briefly worried his neck will snap. For a moment, Clint thinks Tony’s going to, he doesn’t know, throw the screwdriver he’s clenching in his hand at him or yell at him or something. But he doesn’t do either of those things, and, to Clint’s utter horror, his eyes well up with tears, his bottom lip quivers, and his breath hitches.

“Oh god, I am so sorry–” Clint begins, unsure what he said or did to set Tony off so bad, but Tony buries his face in his hands, dropping the screwdriver in the process, and begins to sob heartbreakingly quietly into his palms.

“I-I can’t do anything right today,” he hiccups, voice nasally and muffled by his hands. “I ca-can’t do anything right ever. I can’t do anything.” His crying is surprisingly quiet, like he’s used to keeping others from hearing it.

“No, no,” Clint says hastily, approaching Tony, hands hovering over his distraught friend and winces when he realizes he can feel the heat practically radiating from him. “Jesus, you’re sick. You’re really, really sick.” He cautiously rests a hand on Tony’s back and doesn’t pull back when Tony flinches away from him, slowly rubbing calming circles into his back.

“I’m such a fucking failure,” Tony moans, shrinking into himself and burying his face in his folded arms on the table.

“No you’re not,” Clint snaps as he takes a seat next to him and tugging him close. Tony struggles for a moment before sagging against him, subconsciously turning his face into his neck. “You’re Tony Stark! You’re the furthest thing from a failure, and anyone who told you otherwise clearly doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Tony is silent for a long while, only sniffling into his shoulder and shaking while Clint holds him tightly, seriously concerned about Tony’s temperature and wondering if his words had had any impact at all. “‘M sorry,” Tony mumbles out of the blue, voice slurring with exhaustion.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Tony,” Clint replies softly. “Come on, man, let’s get you to an actual bed.” He slowly disentangles himself from Tony, standing up and helping the other do so as well.

Tony leans heavily on him and they slowly make their way to the door of the workshop, which JARVIS slides open for them. But only halfway there, Tony’s knees buckle, and suddenly he’s a deadweight on Clint’s shoulder. “Tony?! Tony!” he exclaims, shouldering Tony’s weight.

His friend’s head lolls limply, completely unresponsive. Clint shifts his hold and when he glances at his hand, he realizes the wetness on his hand isn’t sweat, it’s blood and pus. “Tony!” He shakes him slightly, panicking. When Tony doesn’t even stir, Clint slips an arm under his knees and practically runs out of the workshop. “JARVIS, why didn’t you tell me there was an infected wound?” he demands, fear sending his heart going at an irregular pace.

“Sir has restricted my ability to disclose that information,” JARVIS responds, sounding incredibly irritated, which Clint can sympathize with deeply.

“Call the team,” Clint says grimly, heading for the elevator to go up to Tony’s room. Tony remains unresponsive in his arms, only whimpering faintly in his sleep and sending twinges in Clint’s chest.

“Doctor Banner will arrive in approximately twenty minutes,” JARVIS notifies him as Clint sets Tony in his bed. “He had returned two hours prior and is currently on the way from the airport. Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff have also been alerted to Sir’s unwellness and will return as soon as they can. Thor is also on his way.”

“Oh thank god,” Clint breathes. He feels utterly helpless; he’s never been good at taking care of people since he’s been alone for a large portion of his life. “JARVIS, what should I do?”

“You will need to clean the infected area,” JARVIS instructs. “There are clean towels and a bucket in the bathroom, along with antibiotic solutions.” Clint sets to work, fetching the things JARVIS tells him to.

“Tony, you idiot,” he mutters without much heat as he carefully drapes a wet towel on Tony’s forehead and gently wipes away the blood and (ew) pus from the injury in his side.

The door opens quietly, and Clint looks up, completely and utterly relieved when he sees Bruce standing in the doorway, carrying a bag of medical supplies. “Thank fuck,” he says.

“How is he?” Bruce inquires softly, taking Clint’s seat and scanning him with a professional eye.

“Terrible,” Clint answers honestly. “He passed out on me when I went down to check on him.” He swallows. “But he’ll be fine, right?”

Bruce checks the thermometer he just pulled out of Tony’s mouth with a grimace before nodding. “103.2,” he grumbles. “Goddammit, Tony. He’ll be fine with proper care, Clint, so don’t worry, but we’ll be having words with him when he’s lucid and he’s not going to cry at any hint of negativity.”

Clint nods. “That’s good.”

He turns to Tony, still panting quietly and tucked into bed, and thinks a little about the delirious sobbing back in the workshop. Hesitating slightly and ignoring Bruce’s raised eyebrow, Clint leans down and presses a small kiss to Tony’s temple. “Get better soon, Tony,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> [send me prompts!](https://kyasuu.tumblr.com/)


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